


A Study in Darkness

by pitypartyof1



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Break Up, Depression, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad, Sad Ending, Short, What Have I Done, i mean seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitypartyof1/pseuds/pitypartyof1
Summary: Everything feels black, like being swallowed all the way under in quicksand, or maybe water. He can’t move, can’t see, can’t speak to stop him. So, he stands and watches, feet planted like age old cement in a city block.
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	A Study in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, yikes, yikes.  
> Uh, my own depression has been acting up lately, and it feels a lot like the powerlessness and loss here, so.  
> Apologies for the sad, sad little thing this turned out to be.

Ashton packs his bags on a Tuesday afternoon.

Everything feels black, like being swallowed all the way under in quicksand, or maybe water. He can’t move, can’t see, can’t speak to stop him. So, he stands and watches, feet planted like age old cement in a city block.

There are tears on Ashton’s face, despite his refusal to make a sound.

Wanting is like wishing and dreaming, none of it has ever done any good for him. Still, all he wants is to call out to him, stretch his fingers out to stop him. He wants to ask for help, plead until his voice is raw with the blades of desperation that fill his chest. He won’t, can’t find the strength no matter how many times he’s searched for it. The ability to reach out fled him a long time ago.

One of Ashton’s books clatters to the floor.

The sudden noise in the blackhole environment startles him and he flicks his deadened gaze to the window. It’s raining outside, a downpour. Fitting, he thinks, feeling drenched in a sudden coldness and shivering. Truthfully, he suspects the cold might be coming from inside him. It’s been a part of him for so long now, he hasn’t been able to feel his toes for months, no matter how many hot showers he takes.

Ashton’s fingers trail sadly over old strings as he moves, next, into the room they shared.

They’re the same strings he used to touch every day, surrounding them both in a cocoon of sound. They used to strum the melodies of their happiness together, late at night, in the backyard. The darkness used to free him, now it just suffocates. He misses the weight of the instrument in his arms so badly, he has to choke back the burn of a scream in his lungs.

Ashton rounds the corner, pausing by their bed for just a moment.

He follows, footsteps hollow. Their room used to smell like lavender and vanilla: warm, happy. It has an almost stale scent to it these days. He sleeps in here alone now, if he sleeps at all. Living is exhausting, existing, it’s just – it’s hard. He never asked for any of this, never asked to be born at all.

On his way back out the door, Ashton brushes him.

It’s the barest of touches, and it feels like nothing anymore. It used to light a fire in him, filled him with something uncontrollable, burning. And now he’s empty, charred logs sitting cold in the grate. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t speak to anyone. His entire body hurts, aches and pains shooting through his joints. Nothing wants to work like it used to, his muscles are tired all the time.

Ashton stops on the threshold, sparing a look back, as if waiting for him to say something.

His tongue is lead in his mouth, lips dry and cracked. He wants to scream, cry, drag Ashton back into the house and hold him close until everything just _stops hurting_. But he can’t. He can’t bring himself to do anything more than he’s been doing. Standing there, saying nothing, barely scraping by.

Ashton hangs his head mournfully.

The door is a quiet click behind him, the finality of the resultant silence deafening, and the first tears finally start to fall. He grimaces as he swipes at them. Guilt washes over him like a filth, like he’ll never be clean again and he spends the rest of the night weeping silent tears, clutching his phone and wishing he had the guts to call. He hates this, hates himself, hates everything. Maybe tomorrow Luke will be able to dial. Then again, maybe he won’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. Let me know your thoughts?


End file.
